DALI TRIAGE

Dali Triage

Crew members issue Mayday calls

restless figures on the starboard bow

grit teeth as the 95,000-ton vessel

plows into the Francis Scott Key

bridge, shakes the sleeping spirit

of Edgar Allan Poe whose epitaph

hic tandem felicis appears out-of-step

with construction worker casualties

found dead, alive with a half dozen

missing but hardly happy to pass on

or thrilled at living-death prospects

where paparazzi follow them

cameras flashing and questions probing

as media mongers inquire how it feels

to be among the lucky ones who escaped

the grim reaper’s grasp, only to tape over

heartfelt testimonies expressing guilt and shame

when newer disasters take center stage,

replacing factual stories and collapsed bridge interest

with fringe figure conspiracy theorists spreading

rumors that the Dali came under cyberattacks,

Covid-era lockdowns fueled repressed,

bad behavior, and wide-opened borders

encouraged the terrorist act, leaving real time

victims’ to suffer, grieve and persevere

in shadowlands beyond Poe’s House of Usher.

Incisor Façade

I place Aeolian harps in wide open windows

where winds blow across strings, vibrating, singing.

Flowing white trumpets emerge outside

filling gardens, valleys, fields and hilltops.

Like easter lilies pushing through fertile loam

ideals either blossom or drop like ivory petals.

I ascend a mountain

feet crunching twigs

listen to magic notes

self-conscious, aware

of my damaged veneer.

Swagger trails behind me tempered by possibilities

evolving, flourishing day after day, year after year.

Crater filled, security enhanced via my mouth prosthetic

cloaks apprehension and brief serenity escapes half-smiles.

Missing tooth redemption negates taunting crucifixions

roll stones from social sepulchers, resurrection via artifice.

Sans Sanctimonious

Marmalade lipstick sustained

heartfelt imprints on each

side of a confessional

like watermarks on lattice

they etched spiritual reminders

that bridged a penitent chasm

to honest, candid self-expression

as silent as a swan’s mating ritual

as nonjudgmental and holy as Christ’s

kiss on the Grand Inquisitor’s cheek.

Continental Trek

Slugging wine from a clay bottle

Byzantium map in my hip pocket

imagination ran as wild as

as the charioteer of Delphi

restraining bravado in the face

of victory, embracing humility

on the heels of upbeat misfortune

or the negative prospect of a windfall.

Shoestring traveling, entranced by European

walkabout sights, I spent nights in hostels

resembling glorified stables, frequented taverns

hooking up with glamorous, alluring misfits

once sunlight set dawn’s early chorus

in motion, filled hills and dales with morning

songs, invited tourists to take-in museums,

absorb local color, traverse experiential causeways.

Isopod Runaways

Oak

leaf

carpets

twigs and grass

clippings covered mud

puddles, concealed loose bricks along

walkways where pill bugs congregated, bred, hid and fed.

We’d seek them out on summer days,

allowed fourteen leg

sets to cross

sweaty

young

palms,

curl

hard

armored

bodies in

balls—roly polys

we shot like crustacean marbles.

My bro collected twenty as pets to excuse him

from cat-box detail; they escaped

coiled in crevices—

no moisture

decay—

and

died.

An award-winning author, poet, and emeritus English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Anti-heroin Chic, The Galway Review, Gleam, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, and Verse-Virtual. Warner’s poetry/fiction collections include Rags & Feathers, Without Wheels, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys boating and fishing in Washington State.